


A Giddy Thing

by crazyinjune



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyinjune/pseuds/crazyinjune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac takes Feuilly out for a stroll, Enjolras is ill, and it turns out Feuilly is great with hair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Giddy Thing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [invisibleinnocence](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=invisibleinnocence).



> My gift for the 2014 Trick or Treat exchange to [invisibleinnocence](http://www.invisibleinnocence.tumblr.com) over on tumblr! They asked for the OT4 and I may have gotten slightly carried away. Slightly. Hope you enjoy!

“Come on a stroll with me,” Courfeyrac leans against the doorframe of the shop, twirling his hat in his hands.

“Have you confused me for one of your grisettes?” Feuilly teases, not looking up from his work.

Courfeyrac’s mouth opens in a small ‘o’ of surprise. “Not at all. Simply a friend who I imagine does not think to stroll often.”

Feuilly takes a moment to ponder this. “You’re right, I suppose. But I have work to do, Courfeyrac. Not much time to go strolling.”

Courfeyrac smiles. It’s that grand smile of his, the one he uses to charm his way into (or out of) anything. “Work, hmmm?”

“Courfeyrac, no, don’t—” Before Feuilly can get another word in edgewise, Courfeyrac has swept through the shop with a flourish and into the backroom where Feuilly’s boss tends to stay.

Feuilly can only sit and fidget with his brushes, waiting to see if Courfeyrac will possibly get him fired. It’s a _nice_ job, he doesn’t want to lose it. Much more preferable to the bricklaying he used to be doing when he first came to Paris. It had been longer hours, more taxing labour, and less pay. Feuilly was perfectly happy painting fans now, thank you.

Courfeyrac waltzes back into the main shop, looking far too pleased with himself. Feuilly tells him as much.

“M’sieur Denis agrees with me that you shouldn’t need to be working on Sunday. The Lord’s Day and all, you know. Here is your week’s pay, and he will see you tomorrow.” Courfeyrac drops a coin bag in Feuilly’s palm, and Feuilly can only gape. “Now come. Stroll with me.”

Feuilly smiles, shaking his head. “Please don’t do that again, Courfeyrac.”

“Is that a no?” Courfeyrac pauses at the door, smile faltering just a bit.

“I never said _that_. Let me get my coat.”

 

————————

 

Courfeyrac tips his head towards the sun and closes his eyes, stretching his legs as they sit on the edge of the fountain. The light plays with his curls, and to Feuilly, he looks almost lit from within. Feuilly closes his eyes as well, and all he can hear is the steady streaming of the fountain, delighted shrieks from the nearby gaggle of children, and, if he listens ever so closely, the sound of Courfeyrac’s even breathing.

“Isn’t this nice?” Courfeyrac lazily opens eyes and gently nudges Feuilly with his cane until Feuilly looks at him. “It’s a beautiful day, I’m so glad you are not shut inside working as usual.”

“Some of uscan’t spend our time idling, Courfeyrac.” Feuilly is feeling far too mellow at the moment to press the matter further, but he must admit it does bother him that so many of his friends can afford to do what they like instead of what they must.

Courfeyrac, however, sits up in indignation. “I don’t _spend my time idling._ Unlike Bossuet and Bahorel, I do actually _attend_ my university classes, you know. And you cannot even begin to imagine the things I do for Enjolras and Combeferre _constantly.”_  He looks visibly upset now, running his hands through his hair, rendering it no longer immaculate as he continues. “If I’m not editing their pamphlets for style, I’m writing my own papers for them, if I’m not doing _that_ , I’m carting myself all around Paris trying to charm anyone and everyone into allying with us, supplying us with weaponry, not informing the police, because _Courfeyrac, this is what you do best_ , never mind the fact that I am run _ragged_ trying to balance it all.” He looks at Feuilly, who will now only look at his hands, and his voice softens. “You are not the only one who is enjoying their first free day in weeks,” Courfeyrac finishes quietly.

Feuilly looks at him. Courfeyrac bites his lip and turns away in anger, embarrassment, maybe both.  “I’m sorry, Courfeyrac.” Courfeyrac doesn't turn back, and Feuilly puts a placating hand on his shoulder. Courfeyrac wordlessly shifts so he ad Feuilly are both sitting facing the square.

“You use the lot you've been given in life to throw yourself entirely and wholeheartedly into helping those who aren't as fortunate," Feuilly says carefully. I know that, and I want to thank you for it.” The smile begins to return to Courfeyrac’s face, spreading slowly to his eyes. “And,” Feuilly adds, “I must thank you for rescuing me from the shop today. You are a regular paladin.”

“I try to be. I try, Feuilly.”

They are interrupted with a particularly loud shriek from the nearby children. A little girl runs out of the group in tears, and Feuilly is immediately on his feet.  The girl nearly crashes into the fountain before Feuilly catches her with strong, gentle arms.

“What’s wrong?” He crouches down at eye level with the girl, keeping his hands on her shoulders reassuringly. She looks about five or six years old, with long, tangled hair. She’s one of the street gamins, Feuilly supposes. Her dress is plain and ever so slightly ragged. If she had parents, they weren’t too attentive. Or couldn’t afford to be.

“They pulled my hair,” says the girl in a whisper. “They said it wasn’t princess hair, they called it ugly and they _pulled_ it.” Her lips tremble, and it looks as if she will weep again. Feuilly doesn’t notice Courfeyrac silently slip away.

“Do you want me to give you princess hair?” Feuilly asks softly. The girl nods, and he draws her between his knees, pulling a spare scrap of yellow ribbon left over from the shop out of his pocket. Humming quietly, he begins to unknot the tangles one by one with his fingers and begins to braid.  “It’s not only princesses that should be able to have beautiful hair,” he says to her as he works. He gets the distinct feeling that Enjolras would be proud of him for having this conversation. “Every little girl in the world deserves to have pretty hair.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

And Courfeyrac is back, giving a sweeping bow almost to the ground as he presents the girl with a pastry, covered in chocolate and cream. “ _Madamoiselle_ , this lovely pastry should go to someone as lovely as you are.” The girl giggles. Courfeyrac dips his finger through the cream and taps her nose and she laughs even harder. Feuilly can’t stop smiling.

 

——————————

 

“Enjolras is sick,” Courfeyrac confides in Feuilly as he keys open the door. Feuilly’s hands are laden with more pastries. “I doubt we’ll find him very agreeable.”

Sure enough, when they step into the room, they find a very flushed, disheveled, and disgruntled Enjolras in his bed. Combeferre is by his side and seems to be gently, firmly restraining him.

“You’re acting a child, Enjolras,” Combeferre says patiently.

“I am _not_ ,” replies Enjolras, every bit the petulant child.

“You _are_ ,” Courfeyrac interrupts. He is gleeful, coming to rest his chin on Combeferre’s head.  Combeferre raises a hand to pat Courfeyrac’s cheek in greeting, keeping the other on Enjolras’s wrist. Feuilly tries to bite back a smile and finds he can’t. Enjolras has never looked quite so _grumpy._

“At least let me brush back your hair. It’s a mess, having it out of your face will help you feel better, I promise.” Combeferre is using his most soothing voice, but there is a tinge of desperation to it. He has been trying to get Enjolras to stay put in bed for an hour to no avail.

“Let me do it,” says Feuilly. Enjolras turns toward him and lights up. “Let me, Enjolras.”

“He does have experience in braiding the hair of _children_ ,” Courfeyrac singsongs. Combeferre swats him, albeit halfheartedly while hiding a snigger, and Enjolras glares daggers. Feuilly laughs, settling himself against the bedframe.  Courfeyrac places a quick peck on Enjolras’s fevered cheek and backs away, smiling wickedly.

Feuilly digs around in his pockets until he finds another piece of ribbon, this time bright red.

“Come here Enjolras. Let me tell you of how I taught a little girl about the democratic right of all to have beautiful hair.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.crazyinjune.tumblr.com) xxx


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